


Ay, Mi Amor: Imector One Shots and AUs

by veinsofink



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Hector is a sweetheart, Imector, Modern AU, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, imelda ignores her emotions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-09 10:04:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16447760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veinsofink/pseuds/veinsofink
Summary: Chapter 3: The story behind the music ban. All it takes is one accident, just one time overhearing a certain song on the radio, and the Rivera family is changed forever.A collection of one shots involving these two dorks I have an unhealthy obsession with.





	1. Stranger Danger

**Author's Note:**

> heyyyy coco fandom! welcome to my first fic in this fandom. this one shot came to me after seeing a screenshot of a tumblr post of prompts by tokiosunset, and then... well it happened, and i've read it once with barely any editing, so we'll see how it goes. i also haven't actually finished a fic in such a long time?? it's kinda surreal??
> 
> anyway you didn't come here to read my rambling so here ya go
> 
> prompt: You broke into my apartment drunk thinking it was your friend’s house and I should call the cops but my cat kinda likes you so we’re good AU

She should call the cops.

Really, there’s nothing okay about this development that is currently sprawled across her couch at seven-thirty on a Sunday morning. 

But… he’s kind of harmless, one gangly arm hanging off one side, face smushed into a throw pillow and a bit of drool forming at the corner of his gaping mouth, and every now and then she hears a faint snore. He has messy, dark hair that hangs in front of his tightly shut eyes, and his ears are comically large. But he doesn’t _look_ threatening.

There’s also the fact that Pepita is curled up on the stranger’s back, purring contentedly and staring unblinkingly at her. Her gaze is almost a dare, an invitation to _try_ and kick this weird guy out of her apartment, preferably in handcuffs. 

If she’s being honest, that’s what decides it for Imelda. Pepita doesn’t like strangers, especially men. She doesn’t even like Oscar and Felipe, and she’s known them for years (though that might have something to do with their stupid experiments and knack for setting things aflame). If she’s content, then there must be something okay about this guy.

Imelda leans closer, poking the man’s cheek. His face twitches and he groans, turning his face further into the pillow, but he does not wake. After a moment he exhales deeply, and she gags at the stench of alcohol on his breath. She isn’t sure how he’d managed to break into her apartment without waking her, and if his morning breath is any indication, he’d managed to do it while drunk off his ass. She doesn’t know if it’s really impressive or if she should think about investing in a couple extra locks on her door. (Both, she decides after a second’s thought.)

He’s not really hurting anything. Sure, there’s dirt on his boots and he’s got one foot on the armrest of the couch, but it will wash off. He’s probably more of a danger to himself than to her. What was he trying to do, drown himself in liquor?

Imelda looks to her cat, still perched on the unconscious man’s back. “If he tries anything,” she tells Pepita, “you have my express permission to gouge his eyes out.”

Pepita gives an answering purr.

She’s probably crazy, but she leaves the man under her cat’s watchful eyes and goes to the kitchen to start the coffee pot. She makes double her usual amount, and as an afterthought, makes it extra strong. 

The next two hours or so pass uneventfully. She sits at the dining table with her sketchpad open and focuses hard on a new shoe design. She just needs a couple more to add to her portfolio, and then maybe Ceci will have enough to pitch the designs to her boss. She feels good about it. If all goes well, this time next year she could have her own business running, perhaps with enough money to open a shop. She could learn to make the shoes herself, give them a special touch instead of sending them off to be made who knows where. 

She swipes off some eraser shavings and eyes the drawing critically. She flexes her hand to ease the cramps and chances a look at her uninvited guest. Pepita has moved from his back to the armrest above his head, but he has hardly moved. She’s beginning to wonder if he up and died in her living room when she has been sitting _right there._ Just as she’s decided to make sure he’s still breathing, he moves.

She watches him as he turns over to his back and stretches. She swears she can hear his spine pop from across the room. Pepita leans over him, purring loudly, and his face wrinkles. “Huh,” he rasps, eyes still closed against the light coming from the window. His words are still somewhat slurred. “When did ‘Nesto get a cat? _Hola, gatito_.”

Imelda takes her mug in her hands; her coffee has long since gone cold, but it’s comforting to have something to hold. Suddenly she wishes she had kicked the man out when she found him earlier.

He seems to be having a pep talk with himself, his head nodding a little bit before he slowly cracks one eye open. He makes a pained sound, but persists through what must be a hell of a headache, and then opens the other eye. Imelda feels like she’s watching an Olympic sport play out before her.

The stranger gazes at the ceiling for several beats. His brows scrunch together, and he looks at the couch he’s lying on, the cat above his head, the low table to his right. There’s a note of terror in his voice when he says, “This isn’t Ernesto’s place.”

Imelda can’t help the snort that escapes her throat. The man looks up and sees her for the first time, and his eyes widen in fear. “No,” she informs him. Ernesto– wasn’t that her neighbor’s name? “I think you meant to break into that guy’s apartment.” She nods to the wall behind her, adjacent to her neighbor’s living area.

“ _Dios mio,_ I’m _so_ sorry!” he exclaims, shooting upright and immediately groaning in pain. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, and Imelda feels a twinge of sympathy for him. It’s been a long time since she got drunk enough to warrant a hangover, but she remembers the feeling well enough.

She rises from the table and heads into the kitchen, getting a clean mug out from the cabinet and filling it with what’s left of the coffee. It’s been sitting on the warmer so long it’s probably gone stale, but it’ll do the job. She tells herself that she’s only bringing him coffee to cure his hangover, and the sooner that’s done, the sooner he’ll be gone. She’s not _domestic_.

Imelda walks back into the living room and stands before him. Unsure what to say, she waits a moment before she grabs his wrist and pulls it away from his face, transferring the mug to his hand without preamble. He blinks a couple times, gaze unfocused. “Uh… thanks. And sorry. Again. You know, for… all this.”

She hums and goes back to the table, taking up her pencil again. But there’s nothing left to draw. “Pepita didn’t attack you on sight, so I guess you’re all right.” He casts a glance to the cat and smiles nervously at her. Imelda hesitates. “How _did_ you get in, anyway?”

“Ay, well…” He takes a gulp of the coffee and gags at the bitterness, but continues drinking it anyway. He seems to gain a bit of life with each sip. “I… may have gotten good at picking locks in the past.”

“ _You picked my lock?!”_

“How else was I going to get in without a key? Aside from kicking the door in, that is.” He looks at her and a smirk pulls at his mouth. “I’m not a criminal, I swear. I used to get locked out a lot as a teenager when I missed curfew. I only slept on the porch twice before I learned how to get myself inside.”

“I bet your mother is proud of you.”

“She is, actually!” He grins, and she hates that she thinks he’s kind of cute. 

She presses her mouth closed against the smile that forms in response. She should be annoyed, angry even, but this man– what even is his name?– is such a damn charmer. He could probably talk a salesman into giving _him_ money.

“You must have been pretty wasted if you didn’t notice you were in the wrong place last night,” she remarks, looking to her design again. She erases a stray mark.

“I wasn’t _that_ drunk. I only did eight shots.”

She shoots him a horrified look. “ _Eight_?”

“More or less.”

She tries not to watch as he downs the rest of his coffee and walks into the kitchen, completely at home in someone else’s apartment. She hears water running as he washes out his mug, and then he’s back standing in front of her. He still looks rather worse for the wear– she notices his eyes are a little bloodshot, and he could stand to shave– but definitely looks better than he did when he first woke up less than twenty minutes ago.

“Anyway, I guess I should leave,” he says as he rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks for not calling the cops on me. And for the coffee. And sorry, again.” He laughs nervously.

He apologizes too much. But he’s sweet. 

She walks him to the door and he’s just crossed the threshold when she blurts, “Tell your friend that if he’s going to keep singing in the shower, he could at least sing some good songs.”

He looks back at her with a furrowed brow. “What’s he been singing?

She crosses her arms. “Just some wordless humming, but he’s _loud,_ you know? Sometimes he adds some lines like…” She thinks back to the one she heard yesterday. “ _The moonlight in your hair is like molten silver._ Or something like that.”

He winces. “I told him to try writing his own songs, but I guess its not his forte.”

“He should consider a different calling.”

“He’s a good performer, but songwriting? Not so much. I think I’ll have to be in charge of that one.” He tries to look perturbed, but it doesn’t convince her.

“You’re a musician too?” she asks.

“Yeah. Ernesto and I play together.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and gives her a shy smile. “You know, we actually perform every Friday night at the cantina down the street. You should come sometime. If you want, of course, I mean–”

She should say no. She doesn’t know him. She doesn’t necessarily like his friend. Just say no, it’s on the tip of her tongue–

“Okay,” she says instead.

He beams at her. “Great. That’s great!”

She lets herself smile, and he walks backward a couple steps. He gives her an awkward wave, which she returns, and then he’s turning away and she’s closing the door. She has just turned to go back to her work when there’s a rapid knock on the door. Confused, she turns back and wrenches it open. The stranger is there again, an odd light in his eye.

“Can I help you?” she asks when he just stares at her.

Seeming to come back to his senses, he sticks a hand out. “I’m Héctor, by the way.”

She looks at it briefly, and then does the polite thing and shakes his hand. It’s warm and his fingers are rough with callouses. “Imelda.”

He grins. “Lovely to meet you, Imelda.” He sounds like he’s savoring her name and the way it rolls off his tongue. He holds onto her hand for a second longer than strictly necessary, and she can’t really say that she’s uncomfortable with it. “I’ll see you around, _sí_?”

If her heart flutters right then, well, it’s no one’s business but her own.

“See you around,” she repeats. Héctor wears a satisfied smile as he releases her hand and walks away, whistling a jaunty tune as if he didn’t just ruin her life. 

And if she grins like a complete idiot behind her closed door, then no one but Pepita sees, and really, what’s the harm?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anywayyyyy i will probably add more one-shots as they come to me! some might be finished in a day like this one. on others i might languish for weeks before it's deemed acceptable. who knows really.  
> thanks for reading!!!


	2. Don't Tell the Kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the "We're rival teachers and half the school ships us, but what no one realizes is that we're already married" AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA THIS ENDED UP SO MUCH LONGER THAN PLANNED.
> 
> It got away from me, y'all. Apparently i'm incapable of writing truly short stories. but hey, it's 4000 words for you to read so i guess it's good for you?? but, again, very little editing so sorry.
> 
> anyway this was fun to write even though it got wayyyyy longer than originally planned. so enjoy!!

  


It’s a familiar song and dance, the way they tease each other in the halls between classes. For some students, the highlight of the day is listening to the music teacher and the math teacher snipe at each other, and the few minutes between third and fourth period are spent with her students giggling over that day’s exchange.

She can think of a lot of cutting insults to use, but many aren’t school-appropriate, and the simple truth is that she doesn’t hate him as much as the students think she does. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

Imelda leans in the doorway to her classroom and smirks. The bell is about to ring and all of her students are accounted for, so she feels safe as she unabashedly watches him. Héctor sees the last of his students to their seats before he joins her in the hallway. His foot catches in the doorway, and he trips into the hall amidst snickers from his students. She stifles a laugh.

“You’re a walking disaster, Rivera” she says with a hard edge to her voice. She winks at him to soften the blow. “But one day you’ll go far… I hope you stay there.”

A chorus of _Ooooohhh_ erupts behind her, and she hears a boy in the music classroom shout, “Don’t listen to her, Señor Rivera!”

Héctor glances over his shoulder, making sure none of the students have a view of the interaction. He leans his torso closer to her, and his sharp tone belies his gentle smile as he says, “Mighty words, Díaz. And may I say that you’re looking positively grim today? How many kids did you send to early graves from boredom?”

“At least I’m teaching them something useful _,_ ” she snarks.

Héctor’s class gasps in unison, dissolving into snickers only a second later. He gives her a wounded look, and she mouths, _It’s a joke!_ to him.

“Useful?” he responds in exaggerated offense. “Yes, all that _useful_ math that I have used _so much_ since school! What would my budget be without ninety-degree angles? And let’s not forget, it would have been impossible to get a mortgage without those parallelograms!”

Both classes are now goading them on, and Imelda knows it’s time to wrap this up and get back to her class, but she _loves_ these few moments where. She can’t resist one last barb.

“Whatever, Rivera,” she says, pushing away from the doorway and taking hold of the handle. “I’ll stay out of your music foolishness as long as you keep your big nose out of my business.”

With that, she closes the door before he can come up with a retort, but she sees him mouth the words _Te amo_ just before she loses sight of him.

Half an hour later, as her class is getting a head start on their homework, she checks her phone and finds a message from Héctor.

**You really think my nose is big?? :(**

She rolls her eyes and taps out a quick response. **You KNOW it’s big, querido.**

His next response is a series of eye-rolling emojis, but he doesn’t deny it. She thinks she sees one student watching her, so she wipes the smile from her face and hides the phone before any suspicions arise.

~~~

“Abril and Natalia asked me today if we’re dating,” is the first thing she hears when she gets home. She’d left a few minutes after him today, staggering their departure as usual so as to not draw attention to their _togetherness._ Héctor always says that she overthinks, that some teenagers wouldn’t notice two teachers going in the same direction, but if Imelda doesn’t consider every possibility, she’ll lose her mind. So, they drive to work separately, which isn’t very economical, but it eases her nerves a little.

It’s not like it’s a bad thing that they’re together and in love and _married_ ; all the other teachers know about their relationship and give them no small amount of teasing in the lounge. But it had been awkward, those first few months of dating, when Héctor was in his first year at the school and so nervous around her. It had been safer not to let any of the students know about them– not that it was any of their business to begin with. 

But then they got more serious, and he confessed his feelings, and Imelda realized that she had accidentally fallen in love with a coworker. They spent nearly every day of the summer together, and when school was back in session, Imelda’s classroom was moved to the one across from Héctor’s. And that’s when the taunting started.

All the other teachers called it for what is was, but to their students, an unforeseen animosity had formed between two of their most beloved teachers, and Imelda and Héctor expertly hid their flirting under sarcasm and barbs.

By the end of the next summer, they were married and still hadn’t broached the subject of making their relationship public. It would have to happen eventually, of course it would, but Imelda had never felt like the time was right. 

She sets her bag on a barstool and joins him in the kitchen. He’s already cutting up some peppers to go with dinner, and he automatically lowers himself to meet her height as she leans in to kiss his cheek. She grabs another knife out of the drawer to chop an onion. “What made them ask?” she wonders, thinking back over their interactions of the day. She’d thought they were pretty mild by most standards.

Héctor shrugs. “I don’t think it’s necessarily because of anything we _did_. They just think it would be… I don’t know, cute? You know half the student body wants us to be a ‘thing.’”

Imelda hums. “And what did you tell them?”

“That you would hit me with your shoe if I dared to ask you out.” He winks, and Imelda bursts into a fit of giggles, remembering the time she really _did_ hit him with her shoe.

To be fair, he had come up behind her so quietly, and she hadn’t realized she wasn’t the last person in the school that day. So when, locking up her classroom for the day to head home, a man’s voice said from behind her “ _HeyImeldadoyouwanttogooutsometime?!”_ she had done the only natural thing: she dropped everything, whipped off her boot, and immediately turned to swing it across the perp’s face. It registered a second too late that the man speaking was the cute, awkward new music teacher and not some freak who broke into the building after all the other staff had left to, evidently, ask her on a date. She’d felt so bad that, after ensuring that his nose wasn’t bleeding or broken, she bought him dinner. Héctor still insists that it wasn’t really their first date, but they both know it was.

Imelda scoops the already cut vegetables into a pan and places it on the stove. “I think every single one of our students would keel over if we told them we were a ‘thing,’ as you put it,” she tells him, still chuckling over the memory.

“Not to mention that said thing has been going on for over three years and resulted in a lifelong sentence,” Héctor says with a ridiculous grin, wiggling his ring finger in his face. His wedding ring sparkles there; he always remembers to put it on as soon as he gets home. Hers tends to sit in her purse until well after dinner and she remembers that it hasn’t been on her hand the whole time.

She rolls her eyes and bumps her hip against his as she passes. They fall into a comfortable silence, her keeping an eye on the sizzling pans while he washes the few dishes and pulls plates down from the cupboard. Soon after, as she’s setting out some tortillas to heat in the oven, she feels a pair of arms wrap around her waist. She leans into her husband’s embrace as his chin rests on her shoulder. He’s being unusually quiet, not even humming a tune or tapping his foot. Imelda furrows her brow and puts her hand over his. 

“Is something wrong, cariño?” she murmurs.

She feels him shrug, then pause. There’s the slightest bit of tension in his muscles as her fingers run over the veins in his arms. “I just…” he stops, then takes a big breath and rushes out, “Don’t you think we should consider telling the whole school?”

Imelda pauses her movements, then purses her lips. “Now, you mean?”

“Well, yeah,” he says nervously. His grip tightens. “I mean, I get _why_ we didn’t tell them at first, because if it didn’t work out or we had a messy break up, then all those kids would know and it would be weird, and of course it wasn’t really any of their business–”

“You’re rambling, Héctor.”

He takes a breath and seems to gather his thoughts. Imelda takes the moment to move the food from the heat and turns in his arms. She winds her hands behind his neck and waits for him to speak. When he does, his voice is lower and calmer. 

“What I mean is, it’s been three years. We clearly haven’t changed our minds. I don’t see that changing anytime soon, or ever.” He looks to her hopefully, and she reads the question there. And what a dumb question it is; why would she ever change her mind about the sweetest man she had ever known?

“And…” she prompts him to continue. She knows where he’s going with this, but she wants to hear him say it.

“And… I’m tired of hiding.” His lips twist in a smile. “Really, why shouldn’t the school know that we love each other?”

Imelda plays with the hair at the nape of his neck while she forms an answer. “I understand,” she says after a long pause. “And I want to tell them too, just… not now.”

Héctor visibly deflates, and she rushes to clarify: “Not because I have any doubts about us or about if we should tell them at all, just the _timing._ ” She holds his gaze and forces a smile, trying to convince herself that she’s not deflecting.“You know as well as I do that as soon as we tell the students, all hell will break loose. There won’t be a single productive day for the rest of the year, not as long as we’ve kept this from them.”

He doesn’t look happy about it, but he nods. Imelda rises to her toes and brushes her lips over his, barely touching in a teasing kiss. Héctor relaxes and tries to deepen the kiss, but she pulls back and puts a finger to his mouth. His eyes widen, and he starts to look almost offended that she would deny him this, but she smiles and continues, “If you can make it the last two months of school without giving us away, we can tell them on the last day, after exams are over and they’re about to leave for the summer. ¿Suena bien?”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. But what makes you think I’ll be the one to slip up?”

“You’re horrible at secrets. I knew you were planning to propose to me weeks before you said anything.”

“Because you found the ring while were _snooping_ in my things!”

“I was looking for tape! You really want to tell me that your crap drawer was the best hiding place you could think of?”

Héctor grumbles something under his breath, and she wiggles away from him to finish cooking their dinner, but not before he manages to claim her lips in a searing kiss. 

~~~

The end of the school year creeps up on them, and Héctor begins scheming all the ways they could make their big announcement to the school. He wants to stage it as a prank of some kind, maybe write a song to go along with it while he pretends to be head over heels in love with her (which is less acting and more exaggerating). He also considers “proposing” to her in the middle of the hallway, but Imelda shoots that one down immediately. She would rather just make a simple announcement during their last morning assembly, but she doesn’t have time to think about the details.

She thinks of herself as a fair teacher, and with only two weeks until final exams, all of her classes are in full-panic mode. She wrapped up the final chapters of their textbooks early and has been focusing only on reviewing the most essential lessons so that everyone will be prepared for the final coming up. 

On this particular day, she’s sitting at her desk during lunch with a stack of review papers in front of her. Most days, she would go to the teacher’s lounge, but she’s confining herself to work on her papers today, and Héctor has joined her. He peels a tangerine and idly throws out more suggestions for telling the school about their marriage. Imelda is only half listening while she looks over her students’ work, her lunch sitting untouched beside her.

“If you want to be understated about it, we could just surprise them with one of our wedding pictures,” he throws out once. Imelda pauses and looks at him incredulously.

“That’s private, Héctor.”

“How is it so private?” He looks genuinely confused. “People show their wedding pictures all the time! And besides, all of our family and friends were there, and most of the staff from school were, too. Literally everyone except the kids know.”

She shakes her head and goes back to reading the chicken scratch in front of her. It’s hard enough trying to read this boy’s handwriting, but what method is he even using? She barely remembers to respond to her husband. “I don’t know, Héctor, it just feels… weird.”

He sighs and goes silent. His watch beeps only a few minutes later, and he pulls his feet off the desk they’re resting on. “They’ll be back from lunch soon. Better leave before they get suspicious,” he says, shuffling up beside her. 

“Mmm, sí _._ I’ll see you at home,” she says absently. 

She can practically feel him pouting as he rests his arms on her desk, getting as close as he dares without blocking her work. “Can’t I get a kiss before I go, mi amor?”

Her frustration bubbles over when she sees the answer her student wrote. “The answer is forty-two, _how_ Daniel getting–”

“ _Imeldaaaaaa.”_

“What– oh, yes, of course.” She turns her head, not even looking up from the paper as she attempts to give Héctor the kiss he apparently can’t live without. She misses his mouth and hits his cheek instead, but he sighs and doesn’t try to ask again. 

He rises and leaves a kiss on the top of her head, retreating to his own classroom with a parting, “See you at home, Señora Rivera.” She doesn’t have time to scold him for using the wrong name; the bell rings then and students begin to filter back in from the cafeteria. 

Imelda puts her grading away and makes her way to the whiteboard, planning out an agenda for the class based on what they have been struggling with the most. She’s just about to start class when the last group of students arrive, all giggling and talking in conspiratorial whispers. She narrows her eyes and turns to face them.

“What’s so funny, niños?” she says in her friendliest voice. 

“Señor Rivera has a lipstick mark on his cheek!” one girl says excitedly, still looking at her friends. The rest of the students all turn around to look at her, clamoring for the details of what they saw.

Imelda’s heart drops straight to her shoes. 

“Yeah, I saw it!” a boy says. “It was purple, right here.” He points to his left cheek, just shy of the corner of his grinning mouth.

She thinks she’s going to pass out. Her heart is hammering and she thinks she should turn around to face the board, wipe off her lipstick on the back of her hand or _something_ but she’s frozen in place and–

One girl is suddenly watching her and she gasps. Then she breaks into a new round of giggles, a hand clapping over her mouth and her eyes alight with glee. Each student then turns to see what she sees, and one by one, Imelda watches twenty fifteen-year-olds connect the dots, sees the exact moment they match her lipstick to the mark on Héctor’s face.

She wants the floor to open up and swallow her. She prays for a surprise fire drill, or a power outage, or a city-terrorizing monster, anything to get her out of this nightmare.

In five seconds flat, hell breaks loose.

Several boys are shouting, “ _Are you serious?!”_ A couple more kids are screaming, “I knew it! I knew it!” Several more voices rise above those, all trying to make themselves heard to express their astonishment. 

The commotion draws the attention of the surrounding classes. Héctor is the first to come to her doorway, eyes widened at how it has crumbled into complete chaos. She looks at him with panic on her face and–  _oh, Dios mio_ , she can see the lipstick on his face. It looks like he has just begun to wipe it away, but it only smears a purple streak across his jaw and _she really thinks she’s going to pass out_ –

“¡¿Qué está pasando?!” he shouts over twenty other voices. It only draws the students’ attention, and the noise swells as they all see the evidence for themselves. 

For the first time in her entire career, Imelda has lost control of her class. Not a single one is sitting anymore, and some are screaming, “DÍAZ KISSED RIVERA, DÍAZ KISSED RIVERA!” It’s as one boy is climbing onto his desk that Imelda comes back to herself.

“Tómas, get down from there _right now!_ ” Her voice rings out, as sharp as a cracking whip. The noise lulls just long enough for her to shout, “The rest of you, _silencio! ¡Basta!”_

Properly chastened, the students seem to shrink into themselves and the ones that are still standing slink to their seats. No one makes eye contact with her, but she can sense their itching desire to. Her heart feels like it might claw right out of her chest if she doesn’t leave the room right now.

“Un momento,” she mumbles, and she strides through the aisle right to the door, where Héctor still stands, dumbstruck. She pushes him into the hall and pulls the door closed behind her, which will probably only fuel the gossip, but she needs this moment of privacy. Héctor takes the chance to close his door as well, amidst confused remarks from his own class that go unanswered. Imelda sees Señora Gutiérrez’s head poking out of a door down the hall, but Héctor waves her off. The door closes, and they are finally, quietly alone.

Imelda leans against the wall and takes a deep, shaking breath. “So… my class knows I kissed you. What does yours know?”

Héctor clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck nervously. “Ah… just that _someone_ kissed me. Not necessarily you, but…” 

“But gossip spreads like wildfire around here, and someone probably heard _Díaz kissed Rivera_ , thanks to Camila and Andrés.”

He breathes a sigh. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay, you know? We’ll think of some explanation, make the announcement tomorrow in assembly. But it _will_ be okay, sí?” He tips her chin up so she’s looking at him. His brows are furrowed, and he looks just as embarrassed as she feels after that little scene in her class. He still looks ridiculous with a smudge of purple lipstick on his face. She uses her sleeve to wipe it away, thankful for the black shirt she chose today; it doesn’t fully wipe away, but it’s harder to tell why his face is tinted purple.

“I know,” she whispers. She sags against the wall. “I know, I just… wish we had more control over it.” A thought strikes her, and she groans. “All this time, I thought you would be the one to give us away.”

He smirks. “And who ended up doing that instead?” he gloats.

She levels a glare at him, refusing to give in. “My lipstick, in its brief stint as a sentient being.”

“Prideful as ever, I see, mi amor.”

He kisses her forehead, and once they’re sure they’re ready to face their classes again, they part ways. Imelda sees twenty heads hastily turn to face the front of the room and pretend like they weren’t straining to hear a private conversation. 

She clears her throat and immediately orders them to open their books. She carries on with the lesson as if nothing is out of the ordinary, but there’s a tense energy that settles like a fog over the class.

The next two classes after that are much the same, the word of what happened already spreading throughout the upper level classes, though no one dares mention it to Imelda. But they all seem _very_ interested in watching Imelda and Héctor as they watch the classes change. She doesn’t have any jibes today, her energy sapped, and he can only shrug helplessly at her.

When the final bell rings and every student has gone home, Imelda groans and rests her head on her desk. Four different teachers pop into her classroom to ask about the rumors they heard, about the screaming coming from this part of the hall, but she doesn’t have the energy to explain and sends them to Héctor. He seems to be handling it much better than she is and she hears laughter coming from across the hall, though no one teases her about it. Everyone seems to know that this is her special version of hell. 

They leave at the same time that day, Imelda finally deciding that the pretending is no longer worth the effort, and they arrive in the same car the next morning. Héctor says he’s got it all taken care of, that she shouldn’t worry a bit, but she’s panicking. She knows, logically, that there’s really nothing to fear; the opinions of a couple hundred teenagers about her marital status really doesn’t matter in the end. If she’s being honest, she doesn’t know _what_ she’s scared of, just that her carefully formed plans have essentially become a dumpster fire and there’s nothing she can do about it. 

It’s Friday, so they have morning assembly in the gymnasium. Imelda sits next to Héctor and the other teachers, and she can feel every single eye on the back of her head. Students she’s never taught, never even spoken to are staring at her. Overnight the whole school has heard what happened.

Héctor takes it in stride. He doesn’t make any efforts to hide anymore, knowing it would be a vain effort. He’d held her hand all the way into the school and to assembly, only holding on tighter when she tries to pull away in front of the students. He still holds it now, squeezing it reassuringly even though her palms are probably sweating and she has _no_ idea what’s going to happen today.

The director goes through the normal weekly announcements and then goes over the exam schedule for next week, as well as the usual end-of-year procedures. He pauses at the end, and it’s like everyone knows what’s coming next. The teachers all glance at Imelda and Héctor from the corners of their eyes, and she thinks she sees every student lean forward in their seats.

“There is one more thing to address,” the director says, and she hears the note of laughter he’s trying to hold back. “Señor Rivera?”

Héctor stands and pulls Imelda up with him to face the crowd. She pales and tries to wiggle back into her seat, but he puts his arm around her waist and holds her close. She sees the grins on every face in front of her, even the ones that would never admit to being amused by the event playing out before them. They all look like hungry sharks, and she’s their prey.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard by now about the, ah, shall we say, _unusual_ events of yesterday.” Héctor, though naturally shy, speaks with complete confidence. His voice carries over the crowd with no need for a microphone. “I won’t try to explain what happened; I only have an introduction to make.”

No. Oh, no, that _cabrón, he should have told her–_

“Ladies and gentleman,” Héctor says around a smile, and he pauses for dramatic effect. “It is my great honor to introduce to you… _Señora Rivera!_

The assembly erupts into screams and cheers, and as soon as she sees the massive grins on her students’ faces, Imelda’s fear melts away. This is good. This has always been _good_ and she kicks herself for not letting Héctor make the announcement sooner.

She looks up at him and matches his smile. Her face is flushed, and everyone is watching, but he shamelessly kisses her in front of their whole school– just a peck on the lips, but the reaction they get is that deserving of something far less appropriate for public company. 

But in that moment, she can’t bring herself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> side note: does anyone know the difference between using "te amo" and "te quiero"? I only know a little bit of spanish but i've read so many different things about the usage of "amar" vs "querer." Some things I've read says that "amar" is used for romantic love between significant others, but some other people say it's super cheesy and they use "querer" instead. I really just wasn't sure so I went with "te amo," but if anyone knows what i should use, please let me know!!
> 
> EDIT: i also forgot to mention, this is as far as I've gotten with AUs I want to write, but I'm open to considering prompts! so if you've got anything, canon-compliant or not, send them my way :)


	3. Cursed Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story behind the music ban. All it takes is one accident, just one time overhearing a certain song on the radio, and the Rivera family is changed forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst angst angst.

The letters stopped coming after six months. For a short time, Imelda had thought, _This is it. They got their dream_. She had allowed herself to hope, to sweep her debilitating fear under the rug long enough to think that everything would soon be all right, that he had stopped writing because he was suddenly busy with contracts and legal talk. Her husband would soon come home; she would kiss him or hit him, depending on how she felt the moment she saw his stupid face; he would wait for word from a publicist or an investor or whoever ran the musical industry and then–

And then what?

Once he got a taste of the world outside Santa Cecilia, would he pack up his things and leave for good this time? Go off on tours not lasting months, but years? Get farther and farther away from his family as his fame spread, always just out of reach? Decide that he didn’t need them anymore, that they anchored him down to a life and a town too small for his dreams?

She disposed of that glimmering hope rather quickly. In her opinion, it was better to be prepared for the worst than to ultimately let herself down.

Coco’s optimism never faded. As another day, another week passed without word from her papá, she would only frown and say, “He’s just busy. He’ll write next week, won’t he, Mamá?”

As the weeks turned to months, Imelda’s answers changed from “I’m sure he will, _mija_ ,” to “I don’t think so, Coco.” She would do anything to give her daughter any kind of hope that her papá hadn’t forgotten about them and that he would soon return, but she couldn’t keep lying to her either. 

When Coco’s birthday came around, it had been four months since the last letter, and the newly turned four-year-old sat at the window all day, watching for a sign of a tall, skinny man coming through the gate. Imelda– after several attempts to get Coco to go play, to dance, to go torment her tíos or do _something_ other than waste away waiting for a man who would never come home– let her be until dinnertime. She’d made all of the little girl’s favorite foods, had even spent some extra money on sweets to coax a smile from the little girl who had been frowning far too much lately. 

It worked, somewhat. Oscar and Felipe managed to get her to giggle, arguing clownishly over whose hats were whose, whose mustache was better looking, who was born first, who their mamá favored more. They kept her busy throughout dinner, asking her all kinds of questions about what she would do now that she was a whole year older. She even clapped her hands and squealed when Imelda showed her the different _panes dulces_ she’d picked out for the occasion. 

But Imelda still knew it wasn’t enough. Coco’s tíos weren’t as silly as her papá. Their stories weren’t as fantastic and mesmerizing as his, and _panes dulces_ weren’t as good when he wasn’t pretending to barter with her over the treat they both wanted, but which she would ultimately win.

That night, after Imelda had tucked the girl into bed and kissed her goodnight, she lingered outside the door, thinking of a man she would rather forget if he didn’t even have the decency to write to his daughter for her birthday. 

She stood outside the door so long, Coco must have thought that her mother had long since retired for the night, because from behind the door drifted a sweet voice, singing softly into the darkness. 

_“Recuérdame hoy me tengo que ir mi amor,_

_Recuérdame…_

_No llores, por favor…”_

The little girl’s voice broke over the words, desperately trying to obey her papá’s request. Imelda’s throat tightened and her own tears welled in her eyes.

There was a time, early in their marriage, when she thought that her husband couldn’t love her any more than he already did. Then Coco was born, and in a matter of seconds she watched his world collapse and rebuild itself around that tiny, squalling baby nestled in his arms. That love he had for her was suddenly magnified in a way she hadn’t thought possible. She thought it indestructible.

She was wrong. And now her daughter was crying through a lullaby written just for her, clinging to the hope that her papá still loved her. 

All that pain, all those tears, and for what? A stupid musical fantasy? For _fame_?

She could handle being left behind. She was no stranger to abandonment, and she would only make herself stronger because of it. But Coco didn’t deserve that. If music meant more to Héc– to _that man_ – than his daughter, then she wanted no part of it. 

The next day, Imelda banished music from her life. Oscar and Felipe looked horrified when she told them, and she was quick to explain that she was only asking them to refrain from singing or listening to the radio around her. She wouldn’t force them to stop completely because of her own heartbreak. 

She wouldn’t– _couldn’t_ – make Coco stop singing either. She wouldn’t make her stop singing her lullaby, not when it was the last shred of hope she had to hold onto. Maybe it made her a bad mother to give Coco false expectations, but it was the one bit of music she couldn’t completely rip out of her life. So instead, she resolved not to linger outside Coco’s door anymore.

In the two years since that night, Imelda had thrown herself into her work. The shoe shop was fully up and running, and she and the twins ran it like a well-oiled machine. She would begin teaching Coco the basics this year, simple things like selecting the right lasts and threading shoelaces, though the six-year-old would probably rather be dancing around the shop and making up fairytales to occupy them while they worked.

It would be good for Coco to learn the business early and to take on some responsibility, however small. Imelda was trying to build something that would last for generations, something sturdy and _reliable_ , and Coco would be the one to carry it on. 

She was walking home from making a delivery to Señor Gonzales’s ranch hands, detouring through the plaza to stop at the produce stand. She didn’t like going to the plaza, not when _he_ seemed to linger there, even to this day. But it was impossible not to see him there, sitting on the pavilion steps, strumming that guitar of his alongside that friend of his and playing songs for pocket change, not when she had seen him there every day for months before they began courting and–

_Enough._ She shook herself and came back to the present. A different mariachi had taken his place, a solo act instead of the duo that had drawn crowds nearly every day. The mariachi was in between songs, taking a rest in the shade. If Imelda hurried, she could be out of the plaza before he even finished warming up. 

It was nearly impossible to avoid music completely, not when México practically breathed music from every nook and cranny. She did her best, but there were just some things– like mariachis in the plaza, nearby parties, and especially hymns during Mass– that she just couldn’t escape. Even as hard as she tried to think of nothing but shoe orders and keeping the twins in check, sometimes the gentle croon of a violin or a child’s nursery rhyme made its way to her ears.

And that was how she found herself catching the tail end of a song– one she had forbidden herself from hearing, the one her daughter still sang herself to sleep with every night, and one that was now playing on a small radio at a table outside the cantina. She saw several people crowded around it, listening as though it held the secrets to life itself. She began to hurry past the crowd, knowing it was no concern of hers, but the smallest snatch of the song reached her ears, and her blood went cold. She froze in the middle of the cobbled road.

“… _Si mi guitarra oyes llorar_

_Ella con su triste canto te acompañará_

_Hasta que en mis brazos estés,_

_Recuérdame!”_

It wasn’t _his_ voice, but she knew the voice well enough anyway. It belonged to that friend of his– _Ernesto_ , her girlhood friends had dreamily sighed, though she always thought he looked more ape-like than man. The song was faster than it should be, flirty and impersonal. It bordered on risqué. A chorus of back-up singers accompanied the rich, overdramatic voice holding out the last note for a ridiculous length of time.

The group of listeners burst into excited conversation and applause that a tinned voice couldn’t possibly hear. Imelda stayed anchored to the ground, her stomach twisting in knots and an ache in her heart that she hadn’t felt so strongly since her husband left home.

It was vile. It felt indecent to be there, listening to an altered, bombastic mockery of her child’s lullaby. It was hardly recognizable as the same song, the new tempo and beat of the words twisting it into something perverse and unwelcome. 

She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to track down Ernesto de la Cruz himself and demand answers.

But she only stood, trembling in the middle of the road while oblivious fans gushed over Santa Cecilia’s own son– a famous one, at that, though there was no mention of the other one.

A realization choked her, and it spurred Imelda into motion. She didn’t quite register the rest of the way home, though she vaguely thought she might be running. She didn’t hear the compound gate slam against the wall and ricochet back into place, nor see her basket fall off the kitchen counter as she raced through the house.

In her next moment of clarity, she was in their–  _her_ – bedroom, looking around at the sparse furnishings and choking back the lump in her throat. 

She paced. She screamed into her pillow while tears darkened the fabric. She paced some more and shoved fingers through her hair until it fell messily from its coil. She wanted to throw something, break something, but there was nothing to damage that she wouldn’t regret later. 

When her heartbeat slowed to a normal rate, Imelda sat on the edge of the bed and breathed deeply, trying to ward off the last vestiges of a sob. 

Something horrible had happened.

If he were dead, Ernesto would have said something. She’d never much cared for him, but he and _that man_ were the closest of friends, brothers even. He was as much family as Oscar and Felipe. He would have written to her, if not come back to Santa Cecilia just to deliver the tragic news. She would know if her husband was dead.

But in two and a half years, there hadn’t been a single word out of Ernesto, not unless that day’s radio revelation counted. 

So he wasn’t dead. 

He had simply left and never came home. 

A new stream of tears spilled out, and she hugged her shaking arms to her chest. Had she mattered so little in the grand scheme of things? Had all of his flowery words and promises, the songs he wrote and dedicated to her– had they all been a lie? And what about Coco, had she–

Coco. 

Imelda’s sobs ceased, and though her face was still wet, fury took root where before there was only devastation.

He had sold “Recuérdame _”._ Perhaps he’d even given it away without a second thought to the child waiting for him at home– the little girl he’d asked to remember him though he could clearly forget her.

If she heard that abomination on the radio, it would break her heart. She wouldn’t show it– an older girl in town told her that big girls didn’t cry, and she took it to heart– but Imelda knew; she would wait until she was alone in her room, and instead of singing her song, she would cry herself to sleep with the knowledge that her secret song wasn’t so secret anymore, that her papá had given it away and it was making its way into the hearts of every person in México. She had spent so much of her short life waiting for him to come home, Imelda feared that this news would make her lose part of herself.

No. This home had seen too much heartbreak. If there was just one thing she could do to lessen it, then she would do whatever it took.

She made a decision. Coco couldn’t hear that song. She _would not_ ever hear that song.

Imelda stood on uneasy limbs and went back into the main area of the house. As she passed the mantle, she looked up and saw the framed picture of her little family. She had worn her nicest dress, had gone to great pains to keep Coco clean and presentable that day in her new pink dress. Her husband had worn a borrowed charro suit that was just slightly too big for him, not quite filling it out in the shoulders, but he’d still looked as handsome as she had ever seen him. The photographer had told them that the photo took several seconds to capture, and that the slightest movement could cause the photo to come out blurry. It was best not to attempt smiling. Imelda’s expression came out stern, and Coco, not even three years old yet, simply looked perplexed. But _he_ had still managed to smile softly, a slight upturn of his lips that he held perfectly still until the photographer declared it finished. 

It had once been perfectly fitting to their family. She didn’t realize it was in her hands until it slipped from her fingers, the frame shattering on the floor. Trembling, Imelda knelt to pick up the glass. Some shards cut her fingers, the new wounds smarting but not bleeding yet. She delicately took the picture in her hands, looking hard at his likeness.

He wanted to go play for the world? Fine. He could have the world.

In seconds, she had ripped the right corner off the photo, leaving herself and her daughter sitting next to the headless torso of the man who abandoned them. 

She swept the glass up and put the ruined photo aside to deal with later, brushing her skirt off as she strode for the workshop. 

The door hinges creaked loudly as she walked in, alerting her remaining family of her presence before they even saw her. Coco hastily sat herself down on a stool, trying to look for all the world like she hadn’t been dancing. Oscar and Felipe looked up from the shoes they were polishing, grins on their faces. But before they could say anything, they faltered.

“Imelda?” Felipe said.

“What’s wrong, _hermana_?” said Oscar.

Coco looked up then, a cute furrow forming between her brows. Imelda remembered, then, how disheveled she must look. Her eyes felt swollen and stung in the air, and her hair fell in a rat’s nest around her shoulders. 

It took several moments for her to remember to speak, and when she did, it was raspy and weak, even to her own ears. “No more music,” she whispered. 

“What?!” Coco cried, dismayed. She leapt from her stool and met her mamá halfway, coming to stop toe-to-toe against her mother’s boots. “Why?”

She took a steadying breath. “Music has done nothing but hurt us, _mija_. It has no place in this house anymore.” 

Coco shook her head, her twin braids flying. “But– but Mamá, my song! Papá–”

“–isn’t coming home, Coco.” The words came out harsher than intended. Coco flinched, and Imelda squeezed her eyes shut, reining in the overwhelming misery that begged to be unleashed. She looked at her daughter again and cupped the girl’s face in her hands. Gently this time, she asked, “ _Mija,_ do you trust Mamá to do what’s best for you? Even if you don’t understand right now?”

Tears were welling in the little girl’s eyes, and she was fighting valiantly against them. For a moment, Imelda wondered if she would fight back, demand an explanation better than the one she was given. Maybe teenage rebellion would start several years too early.

But eventually, slowly, Coco nodded. Imelda sighed and drew her in, cupping the back of her head. Coco sniffled and buried her face into her mother’s stomach, the fabric dampening there. Over Coco’s head, she saw Oscar and Felipe exchange a look, and then turn back to her. Whatever they saw on her face, it seemed to answer an unspoken question. Their expressions hardened, and she knew they understood. A festering wound had been prodded until it bled anew, and this time, there was no healing it. It could only be treated, ignored, but never healed.

And after that night, she never shed another tear for the man who had walked out of their home and out of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling some angst this week. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> If anyone has one-shot or AU prompt suggestions, I'd be happy to consider them! :)


End file.
